The Doctor gravely offered me a fan, which act, together with his guarded manner, started my risibilities afresh. He showed clearly that he was annoyed at this queer person, but was doing his best to be patient with her. I had gone so far, it was imperative to invent some story to account for my distress, and to my own surprise I told him, with many haltings and outbursts of grief, that my daughter, though unmarried, was, I feared, “in trouble”; and I had come to him for help. (This from Miss Prim who, a few months before, would not let this young man brush the lint from her gown!) Would he come to see the girl? And my tears and sighs broke forth afresh. He looked grave and sympathetic, yet somewhat suspicious. As his questions became more searching, I was consumed with shame at the thought of how I should feel when he knew the truth. But I was in for it. I was a strange-acting old mother with my aborted giggles transformed to sobs and sighs. He grew more suspicious, saying, at length: “I think you will be more comfortable, and can talk more easily, if you remove your veil.” Then I was scared. Perhaps he recognized me; perhaps he had all along; but now, disgusted at the lengths I had gone, was taking this way to punish me. Still, so long as he kept up the pretense, I would not throw up the game. But from that time on I was decidedly uncomfortable and every answer I made, was made with the double feeling: Perhaps he knows, and is getting even with me; and, If he doesn’t know, this is a tremendous success. As his inquiries progressed, I was heartily ashamed at the answers and details I was forced to submit to keep in character. This continuing, I grew hysterical in earnest, acting more and more extravagantly, while his suspicions were more and more aroused, or his anger--I could not tell which. He grew very stern. Sitting back in his chair, he said decidedly, “I shall discuss this no further with you until you remove your veil.” I would have given anything then to get away. I felt sure he knew me. That veil had got to come off. Delaying, I fumbled with it, dreading to meet his eyes when my own were uncovered. As I cried and fumbled, my hands trembling in earnest, the veil caught in the trimmings, and he got up to help me. His face was softening, he looked sympathetic again. Then he _didn’t_ know me after all? or, was he carrying the sorry jest as far as he could? The veil at last removed, I looked up in his face--afraid of him, and ready to cry at what I had done. We gazed at each other for an instant, and then--I saw such a look of astonishment as I have seldom seen--he had not suspected me at all!